Great Chief (Chains of Honor, Book 4)

by Lindsay Buroker

  Soldiers in the hollow with them leaned around boulders and fired at pirates trying to get close. Yanko prepared to create a shield—he could have knocked the enemy party down the hillside, but he feared he would need every ounce of energy he had for his burgeoning plan.

  “Tynlee, I’m going to walk out there.” Yanko waved to the rise between the lake and the camp, then pulled his warrior-mage robe out of his pack, the magical garment thankfully free of wrinkles. “If there’s anything you can do to make me look extra radiant and powerful, I would appreciate it.”

  “Walk out there?” Lakeo asked. “Why?”

  “To talk to people.” Yanko rose to his feet, willing his legs to support him for another hour. “Where everybody can see me.”

  “See you and shoot at you?” Lakeo asked. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Yanko, but you look like something a barn owl vomited up. Can you even make a shield right now?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Illusions aren’t my specialty, Yanko,” Tynlee said dubiously. “I have identified the pirate leaders though. I’ve had no luck swaying them from their mission, but perhaps I could help convince them of… whatever it is you plan to convince them of.” She must not have been poking into his mind in the last few minutes.

  Yanko smiled and waved. “I’ll take it.”

  He created a barrier around himself, wincing at the stabbing pain behind his eyes, and strode out of the hiding spot.

  Aldercrest noticed and barked an order. One of the soldiers lunged for Yanko, as if to pull him back behind cover. His knuckles bounced off the barrier. Yanko appreciated the sentiment, but he didn’t slow down to explain himself. All would be apparent soon enough, and he needed this all to unroll quickly if he was to have the strength to protect himself.

  As he strode out of the foothills, the first fireball spun through the air toward him. He reinforced his barrier. The flames splashed off, but the effort required to keep his barrier from crumbling under the assault was far greater than usual. Even sharper pain jabbed at the backs of his eyeballs.

  Yanko gritted his teeth and kept walking. If he collapsed out here, he would feel stupid. And he would soon be dead.

  When he reached the highest point between the camp and the pirates, he raised his hands and created a hint of light to illuminate his face. A barrage of bullets, arrows, and fireballs came his way. Yanko used the remains of his power to incinerate as many as he could in the air before they reached him, doing it with fiery aplomb and hoping people noticed and assumed he was extremely powerful and dangerous.

  “Listen to me, everyone!” Yanko cried, using magic to amplify his voice so that it rang in his own ears and carried to the camp and the lake and the foothills. He did his best to send images and ideas along with his words so that even those who didn’t understand Nurian would get the gist. He also attempted to magically lend credence to his words so that all who heard him would be more likely to believe him. Alas, he doubted he had the ability to affect anywhere near this many minds. “I am the only one here who knows how to cure the illness that has afflicted all of us. If you shoot me, there’ll be no one to help you. Do not believe that simply leaving this land will cure you. We are all afflicted with this poison. All of us.”

  He paused to let the words sink in, relieved that the weapons and mage fire had stopped. People were listening.

  He licked his lips, his mouth gone dry with stage fright coming over him as he grew aware of how many eyes were turned in his direction.

  Not now, he told himself. Do this before you collapse.

  Everything he was trying to do continued to drain him. His knees wobbled, threatening to give way, and Jhali wasn’t around to catch him. She was probably staring at him in horror since he’d implied he would stay out of trouble.

  “I am willing to tell you how to cure the illness and help you with the creation of the drug that will drive the poison from your system,” Yanko went on.

  Activated charcoal isn’t a drug, Tynlee told him.

  Close enough.

  I’m making sure the leaders are particularly rapt and amenable to your words.

  Good, thank you.

  “And more than that, I’m willing to give to anyone who lays down their weapons tonight a piece of this land to legally own and farm or mine or whatever you wish. I have already started getting rid of the contamination that has made us all sick, and within a few years, this land will be lush and vibrant and worth a great deal of money. You already know about the bounteous ore in the mountains, but know also that this will be fertile farmland on which you could grow any crop. For anyone willing to give up their pirate ways or—” Yanko shifted toward the camp to include the soldiers, “—retire from the Turgonian military, I will grant a large piece of land, no less than one hundred acres, to you and your descendants for all eternity or until you sell to another.”

  Someone finally shouted, “Who, by all your dead ancestors, are you to pretend you can give away this land?”

  It was one of the Turgonians instead of the pirates, speaking Nurian, if with a heavy accent.

  You didn’t tell me I had to make the soldiers amenable to your words too, Tynlee said dryly.

  “I am Yanko White Fox, son of an honored family that has stood at the Nurian Great Chiefs’ sides for generations—” no need to mention that the family was currently disgraced and the current Great Chief dead, “—and I am the right-hand man of Prince Zirabo, who is even now marching on the Nurian capital to take the dais.” Maybe not for himself but for somebody… somebody who would, Yanko hoped, agree to his ludicrousness. “I am also the son of the pirate Pey Lu—Snake Heart—so I assure you that I have the power to stop this battle one way or another.” Now, he was bluffing. No, all of it was a bluff. He didn’t even know if he could cure anyone. “If you agree to my proposition, in addition to land and healing, I will see to it that you are forgiven for your crimes. Exoneration!”

  He was too far away to hear people murmuring to each other, but he sensed surprise, disbelief, and contemplation. He had no idea if any of those pirates were tired of being chased by the law, but he had to imagine that being offered land would appeal to almost any man. Even if they didn’t want to farm, to simply own that much acreage on a new continent would be a draw for anyone. He just had to convince them of the value. And that he could deliver on the promise.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he called, even though he didn’t, “but this land will be beautiful, as it once was when people walked on it hundreds of years ago, before magic sent it below the surface. It will be a paradise for farmers, explorers, and those who simply seek to own a piece of the future. Who else will give you this deal? Exoneration and land. And all you have to do is lay down your arms and promise to be good shepherds of this new colony.”

  “Whose colony?” someone yelled.

  “It is Prince Zirabo’s wish that this land be jointly governed by Nuria and Turgonia.” Well, it was now. There was no way he’d convince all those Turgonian soldiers that he wasn’t trying to recruit people to fight them if he claimed it would be only a Nurian colony. “I am on my way to Turgonia to negotiate on his behalf. But I was the one to raise it up from the ocean floor—” he raised his arms overhead, putting the rest of his strength into swaying them, “—and it is mine to grant the use of, at least until I formally gift it to the Nurian Great Chief and the Turgonian president. You have my word that if you join me now, I’ll do as I’ve promised. Cure you of this illness, see to it that you’re not considered criminals in Nuria or here on this new continent, and grant you land on which you can retire from your pirate ways.”

  Yanko spotted Dak walking toward him with a couple of soldiers, who glanced around nervously, their backs uncomfortably exposed. The pirates were staring at Yanko, and he gave his red warrior-mage robe a theatrical stirring in the non-existent breeze to help remind them that he was a powerful mage, the son of Snake Heart. Her name ought to sway a bunch of pirates more than Zirabo’s
would.

  That final draw of power was the last that his body could handle. Blackness crept into his vision, and his knees gave way. The last thing he saw was Dak jogging up the hillock toward him.

  No, Yanko cried to his body, trying to claw his way back to consciousness, if only for long enough to get off the hill so people wouldn’t see his weakness. But it was too late.

  Someone—Dak?—caught him as he collapsed, but he feared the charade was up.

  12

  When Yanko woke up, the pounding in his head made him wish he hadn’t. He coughed, and from the rawness of his throat, he suspected he had been coughing for a long time. His face was flushed and hot.

  Sunlight streamed in through a tent flap, but he was too disoriented to tell if it was morning light or afternoon light. Had he slept through one night or many? His mouth was so dry that he feared he’d been without a drink for a week. What if all the people he’d promised to help had died while he lay here?

  Another cough wracked his body. By the vulture god, what if he was about to die?

  “About time you woke up,” Lakeo said from beside the cot. “A lot of people are waiting for you to fix them.” She bent down and peered into his eyes. “And parcel out land for them. You weirdo, how did you get anyone to fall for that?”

  “It worked?” he rasped, then coughed again. He stretched out a weak hand. “Water?”

  Lakeo left the tent in search of it, and Yanko lifted his head. He did not have any guards, but he spotted Jhali standing quietly in the corner and promptly remembered that she had reason to be irked with him. Even if she was standing watch over him, with all her weapons on display.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  The tent wall behind her was charred black, and the scent of soot and decay filled Yanko’s nostrils. Was it horrible that he wanted to be far, far away from his beloved new project? At least for a while? The Kyatt Islands sounded appealing. And a room full of experienced healers.

  “For using so much power you nearly died, for cooking up an insane set of promises you can’t possibly keep, or for not staying put when you promised me that you would?” Yes, she sounded irked, but she came to the side of his cot and rested a hand on his shoulder, the gesture at odds with her stern expression.

  “I believe I was vague on that last point.”

  “Because you planned to break your word even as you made it?”

  “I just didn’t want to hold you back. Did you find vile enemies to slay?” He smiled at the words, though it made him uneasy that she was an assassin and probably had cut throats that night.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “Next time, do not tell me to go if you intend to risk yourself by running out in front of the enemy army like a drunken quail.”

  “I didn’t have that plan at the time you left.”

  “Do you not think you would have looked more intimidating if you’d had a mage hunter at your back? You are fortunate that your light disappeared just before you collapsed so all those pirates didn’t see Dak carry you off the battlefield.”

  The tent flap stirred, and Lakeo returned. She shot Jhali an irked expression of her own, but she didn’t comment on her proximity to Yanko.

  “You’re lucky you know important people.” Lakeo shook a canteen, and water sloshed inside. “The pirates shot up the Turgonians’ potable water tank.”

  “That’s not out of the lake, is it?” He eyed the canteen, terrified of what would happen if one drank from the water that held those plants. But maybe it didn’t matter if hordes of the microscopic toxins were already swimming around in his body.

  “Nah, backup supply, but the Turgonians are breaking camp as we speak to head back to their ships.” She handed him the canteen.

  “What are the pirates doing?” By habit, Yanko started to reach out with his senses to check the surrounding area, but pain stabbed him behind the eyes, encouraging him to stop. It wasn’t as bad as the previous night, but he felt like an athlete who’d spent too many hours lifting sand bags the day before.

  “Sitting on the ridge and waiting for you to cure them and dole out land for them,” Lakeo said.

  “Er, really? It worked?”

  “To some extent.”

  “Others simply left, probably because they believed your words about Snake Heart—” Jhali sneered as she said the name, “—and that you were too formidable to face for gold.”

  “Tynlee said they’d already realized they were having to fight too hard and had too many losses to justify their mission to steal the Turgonians’ gold,” Lakeo said. “They’d expected the soldiers to be a lot weaker and to catch them completely by surprise. The Turgonians didn’t have time to set up the ambush they wanted, but Tynlee did give them some warning. I gather the general was happy about that.”

  Yanko wondered if that was a result of the warning he had given Tynlee to check on the men he’d sensed. He wished now that he’d put off his transplant project and gone to investigate those people more thoroughly.

  Yanko? Tynlee spoke into his mind, as if she knew they’d been talking about her. Maybe she did. How well rested are you?

  Not at all. He didn’t want to complain about the illness, but it worried him far more than his inability to draw upon his power. The latter would return in time. If he lived through the former.

  I’m not trained in fire magic. I need your help for this final step.

  Final step?

  She shared an image with him of dead kelp and seaweed raked together and tossed into the bullet-perforated water tank on top of a steam lorry with flat tires.

  It has to burn in there? Or does it burn? Yanko hadn’t gotten much of an explanation yet on how to make the special charcoal. Or charred vegetable matter, as he understood it.

  The books were destroyed, but I read the entries first. I believe I can instruct you. We need to expose the raw material over time to an oxidizing atmosphere by applying oxygen or steam at a high temperature. The goal is to create a form of carbon with tiny, low-volume pores that increase the surface area for the purpose of adsorption—things, such as our toxins, will then stick to it.

  Yanko pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing as the pounding in his head returned. He had basic knowledge of the building blocks of life, as an old tutor had called them, at the molecular level, since that was required for manipulating matter, which was at the foundation of all magic, but a “high temperature” was vague, as was his understanding of how this would work.

  There’s a lot more vegetation around if we need to experiment, Tynlee added. I’ve got the soldiers bringing in anything that’s edible to humans, though I had to lecture them on what’s edible. Turgonians, despite having a lot of coastline on the west side of the continent, don’t eat the variety of sea vegetables that we do.

  Yanko questioned how edible any of the vegetation was after weeks of baking in the sun, but maybe it didn’t matter if they were going to incinerate it—or mostly incinerate it.

  I’ll be there soon. Yanko tried to stand up, but his knees remained as weak as they had been the night before.

  Lakeo grabbed his arm, and Jhali hurried around the cot to grasp him from the other side.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, too tired and sick to worry about his pride. “Can you help me outside to the steam vehicles? I need to help Tynlee with our, uhm, project.”

  “Yes, we know about it,” Lakeo said. “I tried to volunteer myself to go back to the yacht and update everyone this morning, and she sent me off to gather disgusting dead kelp.”

  “Wait until you get to eat it,” Yanko muttered, stumbling for the tent flap with their support.

  “What?” Lakeo’s brow furrowed.

  Tynlee must not have shared the finer details yet.

  Yanko shook his head. The explanation could wait until they knew if he could make what the book had described.

  You can do it, Tynlee told him firmly. You must.

  Because I’m sick now too?

  Because Dak is. He colla
psed after carrying you to safety last night.

  Oh. Yanko swallowed, his throat thick, his mouth dry.

  I also hope this will help for your sake, Tynlee added. Then her tone turned lighter, or maybe drier, when she added, Hundreds of pirates are waiting for you to assign them land and make their pardons official.

  So I’ve heard. We’ll need a map of the continent, a deal with Turgonia, and to know who the next Great Chief is before any of that can happen. Yanko squinted as Lakeo and Jhali led him into the sunlight.

  His nose wrinkled at the scent of burning matter. He wasn’t sure if it represented the torched tents—only one other tent remained standing—or if the soldiers were burning more dead in funeral pyres nearby. He didn’t use his senses to check, instead going straight toward the vehicles.

  But he paused when he saw several soldiers laid out on blankets while the rest packed the camp supplies up on their lorries. Dak lay among them, his face beaded with sweat, his eye closed.

  Yanko veered to his side. Seeing him like that made him want to hurry to help Tynlee, but he remembered how quickly the other men had died, and he wanted to thank Dak for the rescue the night before. Just in case.

  A round of coughs took Yanko, and he ended up gripping his chest and bending over at Dak’s side.

  “Are you coughing on me, Yanko?” Dak opened his eye.

  “Sorry. I just wanted to let you know…” Yanko recovered enough to straighten. He decided he had better not crouch down, or he might not be able to rise again. Lakeo and Jhali had stopped a few paces back. “Thanks for coming to get me last night.”

  Dak flicked a finger. “Of course. I had little else to do. It seemed unsporting to complete our mission of slaying the pirate leaders when they were staring in rapt fascination at you.”

  “I’m a fascinating person.”

  “Uh huh. You’re lucky General Aldercrest didn’t shoot you for that stunt.”

  “Do Turgonians often shoot their allies?”

  “If they run off against orders and do foolish things.”